


The Swan's Song

by Birdie Blue (calamitywritesstuff)



Series: Thedas Fairy Tales [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Fairytales, Swan Lake & Related Fandoms, Лебединое озеро - Чайковски | Swan Lake - Tchaikovsky
Genre: Ball, Ballet, Ballroom Dancing, Chevaliers - Freeform, Dueling, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Falling In Love, Ferelden, Fluff and Angst, Love at First Sight, Orlais, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Swan Lake - Freeform, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-11 01:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4415333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calamitywritesstuff/pseuds/Birdie%20Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of Swan Lake with Dragon Age characters. Mashing Origins and Inquisition together a bit for an older and more developed Cullen.<br/>COMPLETE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. L'Entrée

Cullen watched as Prince Cailan lined up yet another shot with his new crossbow. The Prince been at it all morning, eager to master the gift he’d received from the Orzammar delegate the day before. Cailain squeezed an eye shut, carefully letting his breath out as he pulled the trigger. Cullen listened to the now familiar click-hiss as the bolt loosed, and the solid thunk as it pierced the target.

“Another good shot your highness,” Cullen said, praying to the Maker that the Prince would grow bored and choose to do something else. Sparing, reading, anything, really. There was only so many times a man could watch someone fire a crossbow and not go insane.

However, as the Captain of the royal guard, it frequently fell to him to watch over the heir apparent of Ferelden. Many of the recruits would think it was an ideal position, but Cullen would have much rather been overseeing his troops, ensuring that they were battle ready. Not that he held ill will to the Prince, far from it. It was just… a Theirin trait to be endlessly eager and good natured, even when deeply stressed. Both the Theirin brothers were like that, endlessly optimistic and at times, silly. He liked the brothers, even thought of Cailan as a friend… but Maker, sometimes the man tested the limits of Cullen’s patience.

“What do you think, Cullen?” Cailain asked, lowering the empty crossbow.

“Of your shooting? You’ve improved considerably since we began this morning,” Cullen said, nodding approvingly at the small cluster of bolts on the target’s eye.

“No, not about target practice,” Cailan said with a laugh. “I meant about the ball tomorrow evening, to find dear Alistair a wife.” Cailan raised an eyebrow he turned to look at his Captain of the Guard. Cullen didn’t try to hide his smirk as he remembered the panicked look on Alistair’s face at the news. Cailan had burst out laughing, only to be told that he was expected to select one the same night. Although they were only half-brothers, the two princes were remarkably alike. Alistair had ruddy hair and freckles, and Cailan was fair haired and a tanned, but their expression might have well been on the same face that day.

Despite trying to talk their way out of it, the King had held firm, reminding them that he was getting old and they needed heirs, and so on.

“ _Just_ Alistair, Cailan?” Cullen asked. “Far as I remember, it was for the both of you.”  The prince’s grin faded into a grimace.

“Thank you, _Captain_ , for reminding me of that. Though I’m sure that my decision has already been made for me. Loghain will no doubt shove his daughter towards me at every opportunity until I agree while Father stares at me from under his eyebrows.” The prince shrugged once, resting the uncocked crossbow against his shoulder. He didn’t seem particularly enthused, although he could do far worse than Loghain’s daughter.

“Lady Anora is a good match,” Cullen said diplomatically. The woman was shrewd, a trait that the future Queen of Ferelden would need when dealing with a pair of idealist Princes. More than that, the Ferelden people loved her. Loghain was not the only one expecting Cailan to make Anora his wife. The Recruits had started a pool on how long it would be before Cailan gave in. Cullen had carefully pretended he didn’t know about it for the last two years.

“Yes, I shouldn’t complain,” Cailan said with a sigh. “But I don’t _love_ her. All the stories talk about seeing your love and feeling that awakening, the rush of love that tells you that the woman you’ve just met is the life mate you’ve been looking for. Anora is just, Anora. Smart, bossy, Anora.”

Cullen nearly rolled his eyes at that, but instead he crossed his arms and leaned against the Courtyard wall. Sometimes he wondered how the heir to Fereldan could be so… naïve. Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking. Maybe as a prince,that kind of life seemed more attainable than to an ex Templar, or the small folk… or anyone else.

“Those are _stories_ , Cailan,” Cullen said. “Not everyone feels that when they meet their intended. Most don’t.” Cullen almost brought up his own family before he realised that his parents were one of the luckier ones. The Rutherfords were not rich or powerful, but Cullen knew his father still picked flowers for his mother every morning, and the way he watched her when she wasn’t looking had set high standards for their children.

“Have you ever felt true love, Cullen?” Cailan asked quietly, fiddling with the crossbow’s sights. Cullen, caught off guard, cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his neck. _Had_ he? He’d certainly been struck by the beauty of certain women, but he’d never really felt that feeling of knowing that a person held his future in their eyes.

“No,” he answered, “I haven’t. Luckily I’m not expected to pick a wife tomorrow evening.” Even if he did find a woman that he thought he could love, Cullen wasn’t going to ask her to deal with the nightmares every night, or the cold sweats of lyrium withdrawal.  

“Thank you,” Cailan said with a groan. “For reminding me. Maybe you’ll find a nice daughter of an Arl at the ball. Lady Ferga keeps asking about you, you know.” At the Prince’s teasing Cullen _did_ roll his eyes.

“Between you and your brother, I’m sure that the eligible ladies will be occupied with their hopes for a _royal_ marriage,” Cullen said dryly. “Luckily. And I’m sure Lady Ferga will be more interested in your brother’s prospects than a grumpy Captain of the guard.”

Cailan laughed, walking over and clapping a hand on Cullen’s shoulder.

“I’ll pick one out for you tomorrow evening, just watch,” Cailan said with a laugh. “To help get my mind off things, let’s go hunting tonight. Even if it’s just for Nugs, if I let myself think too much longer on the ball, I’ll drive myself mad.” The Prince’s smile was infectious as it always was. Even grumpy Captains were swayed by it sometimes. Often against his better judgement.

“No doubt your father will not be upset with you hunting the night before your betrothal?” Cullen asked, already knowing the answer. It was a short answer, only two letters. However, Cailan had never really been one to follow his father’s rules if he didn’t see their reason.

“Absolutely,” Cailan said, squeezing Cullen’s shoulder. “Don’t tell him.”

“Of course…” Cullen muttered.

**

“I cannot _believe_ that we will be forced to camp in our _tents!_ ” Claudine sniffed. “Do they not understand that we are cousins to the Empress? We deserve rooms at the Castle.”

The noblewoman had been complaining since they’d crossed the border from Orlais. The Fereldan grass was ragged, the air smelled of dog and shit, and the architecture was horrendously plain. If there was something that could be wrong, Claudine was sure to tell them about it. Milliara did her best to tune it out, preferring to let the Baron deal with his sister’s constant whinging.

Claudine was right about some things though… the Ferelden air was fresh and smelling of the nearby lake instead of the perfumed orchards of rural Orlais. Milliara closed her eyes and took a deep breath in, relishing in the Ferelden air that Claudine hated so much. The last time she’d smelled it, it had been as a young girl, the only air she’d known.

“There will be many visitors,” the Baron snapped, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “And not enough rooms. Our tents are superior to the local village Inn, unless you’d like to sleep in the stables with the other broodmares?”

The Baron wouldn’t hit his sister before the ball, but Claudine had to know she was playing with fire, Milliara thought. Rothbart wouldn’t risk losing an alliance with Ferelden for a moment of satisfaction. Normally, that meant that Milliara would play the role of whipping girl, but with the ‘diplomatic meeting’ in the morning, she doubted the Baron would lay a finger on her. After her performance though… Milliara expected she’d barely be able to ride her mare.

“Still,” sniffed Claudine. “Fereldan customs are so… animalistic. I bet they all smell of Dog. Perhaps sleeping in the stables would endear me to the Prince.”

Milliara could hear the low growl of the Baron and let her mare fall back by a couple steps. Was Claudine _trying_ to provoke him? Milliara glanced behind her, looking over the column of servants and guards that followed behind. If only there were less, then Milliara could just… run. And keep running until she either died, or found a way to evade the phylactery that Rothbart had.

“Tsk, you know he’d catch you,” A voice to her right said. Milliara looked over to see a crow wheeling on the lakeshore breeze. The elf frowned, wondering if her mind had finally broken. She’d expected it sooner or later but-

“There’s another option,” the crow rasped, landing on the pommel of Milliara’s saddle. It preened it’s flight feathers, and Milliara reached out carefully to touch it. The crow was solid, feathers warm from the early evening sun. It’s sharp beak nipped at her fingers, and she pulled them back, watching the bird in disbelief.

“What is it?” she whispered. “The other option?”

The crow pecked at its leg, red string had tied a piece of parchment around it. Milliara looked up to see if the Baron of Claudine had noticed anything strange. They were still arguing over the smell of Ferelden, leaving Milliara free to untie the note from the bird’s leg. The moment the parchment was in her hand, the crow launched itself off the saddle in a flutter of feathers.

“What was that?” the Baron Rothbart asked, turning in his saddle to look back at the crow flying off. Heart pounding, Millara palmed the note and made a face.

“A bird flew at me,” she said, pointing with her empty hand to where the crow wheeled in the sky.

“See?” Claudine said, and for once Milliara was grateful that the woman was unable to let things go. “Even the birds are evil here.”  The Baron looked at the crow, before he levelled a long look at Milliara. Heart pounding in her chest, the elf let her hands flutter as she readjusted her Masque and hair, both knocked askew by the bird.

“Shame it’s out of range,” Rothbart said after too long. “It’s feathers would have made a beautiful Masque.” The feathers of his own were jet, carefully carved to resemble the face of an owl. No doubt he would was being honest. Milliara was never sure how many masques he did have, though all but one was the Rothbart owl.

As he turned away from her, Milliara felt the rush of relief through her body, knowing that she had escaped a dangerous situation. The parchment in her palm felt heavier than it had a right to. With the Baron safely occupied by his sister, she unrolled it in her hand to find a small key and a single line of instructions. They wouldn’t be hard, the Baron and Claudine would be occupied with the Ball, and the guards were… far from the quality she was trained to evade.

“We’ll camp here for the night,” the Baron said, gesturing to an outcrop of the famously red stone of Redcliffe. “In the morning, we set out early. I will _not_ be late for the meeting arranged with King Maric.” He looked at his sister, and the woman sighed.

“Yes, fine,” she snapped. “I suppose if I do marry a Prince I can stop sleeping in _tents_ ,” Claudine sniffed. Her own owl masque was far more delicate, and Milliara wished she could crush it into the woman’s face. Instead, she nodded, letting her eyes drift out to watch the sun setting behind them, the pink gold light shimmering on the waters of Lake Calenhad.

“Monsieur Rothbart,” Milliara asked, surprising herself by speaking up. “Would I be free to practice this evening? The shore of the lake looks to be flat enough…” she trailed off, watching him carefully. He looked over at her, halting his horse while his men hurried forward to set up camp for them.

“It’s just that after so many days riding, I want to be sure I present the best possible performance for your meeting tomorrow.” She kept her eyes down, knowing that if she was going to be able to have even the smallest freedom this evening, she would have to grovel for it. More than that, she needed to get rid of the parchment. The key would be easy enough to stow away for now, but that slip of paper could become a very big problem very quickly should the Baron find it.

She could feel his eyes on her, searching her for any ulterior motive. Every breath, every muscle had been relaxed to show only her earnest desire to practice. Peering through her lashes, Milliara watched for any sign of Rothbart’s displeasure.

After she was sure he would disallow it, he nodded and gestured towards the lake’s small sandy beach.

“Be sure not to hurt yourself and risk the performance tomorrow,” he said. He patted his chest, where he kept the vial of her blood, his insurance that she would never stray far. “Be rested for tomorrow, and if you are not back in my tent by a reasonable hour, you will be fetched back.”

Milliara dipped her head gratefully, an honest smile creeping over her face. Freedom, even if it was just for an evening.

“Of course, thank you my lord,” she said, bowing over the saddle, and slipped down from her mare. Before she was free to practice, she still had duties to attend to. The horses needed to be tended, supper prepared and then… then _freedom_.

**

“We should head back,” Cullen said, watching the moons begin to rise over the lake. The sky was clear, the constellation of the Dragon twinkled overhead. Cailan had claimed it as a good sign for hunting, though they had yet to find _anything_. Even though the twin moons would let them see enough to avoid rocks, Cullen couldn’t shake the mental image of Cailan getting thrown from his charger, or hurt by a bear that neither of them saw coming.

Ahead, Cailan grinned over his shoulder, looking like the hero of some romantic story. Golden hair pulled back, and the gilded leathers he wore made him practically glow under the moons’ light. Cullen had dressed in simple browns and a red jacket, unwilling to wear the unnecessarily bright armor that Cailan had given him for the ball.

Just thinking about the ball gave Cullen a headache. Trying to keep track of _two_ flighty princes and _Maker-knew how many_ princess-hopefuls all while playing polite with the nobility? That sounded like a nightmare. The only part of the following evening that Cullen was looking forward to, was pouring himself a stiff drink after the ball was over.

“Alright, if we don’t spot anything by the time we reach Eagle’s rise, we’ll turn back. It’s not far, see?” Cailan said, pointing to where the outcropping of rock blocked out the stars. A faint orange glow outlined the ridge, and Cullen frowned.

“It seems as though the rise is occupied already Cail-”

Cailan had stopped, and held out a hand, nearly hitting Cullen in the chest. The Captain’s frown deepened, and he looked down at the hand on his chest before he picked it up and moved it away. Cailan’s face had melted into an expression of wonder. His jaw slack, and eyebrows raised.

“Maker’s breath,” Cailan whispered. “Cullen, look.”

“What?” Cullen asked, turning to see what had captured the Prince so completely. Unless it was a golden nug, his patience was wearing- then he saw her.

Pale, with long slender limbs, the woman on the shore was turned away from them, visible only in the gloom by the glow of moonlight on her silver hair and white dress. She moved as if she were water, twisting and leaping into the air as if she could fly.

Watching her, Cullen half believed she _could_. He felt his heart twist in his chest, stealing his breath from his lungs. She floated across the sand, twisting in ways that Cullen could only describe as bittersweet. The way she leapt across the sand exulted in freedom, but there was a heartbreaking sadness to the way she moved, as though constantly expecting her arms to be stopped by something. A chain, rope… a hand?

What was she waiting for?

“She’s beautiful,” Cailan whispered, and Cullen felt his heart twist sharply.  A glance over at the prince told him everything that he didn’t want to know. Cailan was enthralled with the woman, his eyes following her every move as she moved across the shore. “Cullen, I think this is _her_. This is my wife.”

Before Cullen could object, Cailan had spurred his horse forward to the beach.

Conflicting feelings aside, Cullen couldn’t let the _Heir to Ferelden_ ride up to a strange woman. For all they knew, she could be a demon. Although, Cullen thought as he urged his own horse after the Prince, the woman seemed too sad to be a desire demon. A ghost? But no, she was solid.

The woman heard the horses and spun, leaping back in the sand in surprise. She tripped on the skirt of her dress, landing on her rear. Cullen couldn’t help but notice the sheer look of panic on her face, but it wasn’t directed at them, but the glow of campfires up the rise.

“Please, go away,” she hissed, her voice a curious mix of Orlesian and Ferelden. Her masque had been knocked slightly askew, the white swan’s face hiding half of the woman’s. But… not the overly large eyes, or the point of her ears.

Cullen tried to surpress the groan. She was an elf, Cailan wouldn’t care, but Maric would. Even if Cailan were able to talk his father into marrying a woman he found at the lake, any heir would be seen as illegitimate.

Much like Cailan’s brother. While Alistair was accepted as a Prince, he would never rise to the throne unless there was no other option.

“Please,” Cailan said, dismounting and holding out his hands to show that he held no weapons. “Please don’t be afraid. I just saw you dancing and I had to meet you.” He smiled, and it was the smile that charmed half of Ferelden, the smile that made women and men fall in love, the smile that had let the Prince get away with so much in his life and earned the nickname Prince Charming.

The elf, however, looked up at where Cullen still sat on the horse. He felt his heart twist again, recognizing the fear in her eyes as the kind he had once felt. He swallowed hard, shoving away the urge to push past Cailan and ask who it was that made her so afraid.

Instead, he dismounted, taking the reins of Cailan’s forgotten horse.

“My name is Cailan, please, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the Prince said, holding out his hand. “But I was struck by your beauty, the way you moved stole my breath… and my heart.”

Cullen tried not to smirk as the woman looked at Cailan in disbelief.

“Please, go,” She said, scrambling to her feet and brushing the worst of the sand off her. Cullen couldn’t be sure, but he felt as though she was looking past Cailan, straight at him. Dark eyes recognizing something in him, perhaps the same learned bitterness that he’d seen in her.

She spun in the sand, trying to hurry away. Cailan, however, was determined. He jogged past her, blocking her way back to the ridge. Cullen watched the woman’s back stiffen, her shoulders rising in anxiety. Surely Cailan could see that she wanted nothing to do with them? For a moment, he was certain the woman was going to slap the Prince, but instead she sighed in defeat and glanced back at Cullen.

“What do you want, then?” she asked, eyes lingering on him before she looked back at the Prince. Cullen watched in a kind of numb horror as Cailan dropped to a knee, catching her hand and bringing it to her lips.

“Your heart, your love,” the Prince said. “But I’d be happy to start with your name.” Cullen was sure that the line would have worked on most women in Ferelden, but clearly this particular one was not having any of it.

“I can’t,” she said, pulling her hand free. She tried to step past him again, but his fingers caught hers, and Cullen tried to watch without feeling any ill will, even as his stomach twisted. The woman was not interested, she was afraid and _not of them_.  What was Cailan doing, thinking that he could charm her out of her fear?

In the distance, he heard the crunch of a boot on stone.

The elf’s head had snapped over to where the sound had come from and her eyes widened, her efforts grew more frantic. “Please, let me go,” she hissed, trying to untangle her hand from the Prince’s.

“Cailan,” Cullen said, voice low and urgent. “We’d best leave.” He wasn’t comfortable with the Prince’s proximity to a panicked elf, nor with the approaching footsteps of _whoever_ it was that she was so afraid of.

“A name,” Cailan said, “And then I will let you go. Although I _will_ find you again, I _must_.” He stood, glowing as much as the elf under the moonlight. No doubt he thought that he was irresistible, the hero who walked from the pages of a romance full of danger of true love.

“Milliara,” she whispered, finally twisting her hand free. “Please, _go_.”

She froze as a voice called out, deep and heavily Orlesian.

“ _Ma Cygnette_ , who are your new friends? Were you not going to introduce us?” Cullen watched as the woman’s body tensed, every muscle coiled and ready to flee under her pale skin. She looked nervously at Cullen, tucking her wrist into her chest.

“I’m sorry, Baron, I was on my way back when I was interrupted.” She glanced at Cailan and Cullen, before she knelt in the sand before the man who appeared out of the darkness. He wore the masque of a great owl, fearsome and glinting in the moonlight. His robes were subdued as far as Orlesian fashion went, muted blacks and greys under the moon, with only a single feather curving out of his masque that was pale under the moonlight. Were he a betting man, Cullen would wager that in daylight the feather was yellow.

A Chevalier. Cullen’s lips pressed together tightly. Orlesian nobles that were highly trained, and above the law. Their name had been synonymous with a hushed respect among the Templars, but also viewed with a kind of disgust at the stories that slipped out from Orlais about missing servants and bastard children.

“My apologies,” Cailan said, bowing in front of the Chevalier, straightening with a sheepish but still charming smile. “I was struck by the woman while we were out hunting, and I couldn’t help but ask for her name.”

The chevalier’s masque hid his face as he walked up to the elf, his hand resting on her shoulder. Cullen watched as the man’s fingers twisted into her pale hair, cruelly tangling tight. The elf’s downturned face twisted into the self-loathing that Cullen was used to seeing every morning in his mirror as he shaved. Hatred that they couldn’t do anything different, though his was at a situation long past… hers was every breath. Every _moment_ with this man.

She looked up, dark eyes catching him watching her, and her lips pressed into a thin line before she turned her gaze down and away.

“Such a strange request. Did you get it?” The Chevalier asked, and Cullen glanced up at the Prince, who now held his hands out in supplication.

“I did, but I must profess that I wish that I had not caused her any harm.” Cailan said, putting all his princely charm to work. “If it pleases you, I would invite you to the ball tomorrow at Redcliffe castle. Please, both of you are welcome.”

Cullen imagined he knew what Cailan planned. If the woman was at the ball, he could publically declare his love for her, and the Chevalier could do little but acquiesce. It was a risky plan, but it was not impossible. Cullen wondered if the prince understood the danger he’d just put his ‘love’ into. Or maybe he was underestimating his friend, after all, the invitation meant that the woman was _expected_ to be present at the ball the following evening. If she was not, the Chevalier would be forced to explain her absence and risk damaging relations with Ferelden.

“I _insist_ ,” the prince said. “It is in my honour, after all, they could hardly deny me some honoured guests?” As charming as he was, Cailan’s efforts seemed to be wasted on the Orlesians, Cullen thought. The woman had been too terrified to fall to his charm, and the Chevalier was impossible to read behind his masque.

After a long moment, the Orlesian nodded.

“We will be there,” he said, shifting his grip to the nape of the elf’s neck and pulling her to her feet. “Both of us. But one thing before we go, Prince Cailan Theirin,” the man said.

“Are you an _honourable_ man?” Cullen watched as Cailan blinked, caught off guard by the question.

“Of course,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “I was raised as such, honour and loyalty are important to the people of Ferelden.”

It was difficult to tell in the darkness, but Cullen was certain the Chevalier smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, nor one that boded well for the Prince’s intentions.

“Excellent. Lord Rothbart and Mademoiselle Lavellan will be pleased to attend your ball,” he said, and offered a courtly bow. Cullen wondered how the man managed to make even a _bow_ threatening. However, if the stories he’d heard about the Chevalier training were true, Rothbart would be able to make anything threatening, or even lethal.

“Now, please excuse us,” Rothbart said, and turned, his grip on the elf’s neck still tight as he led her back towards the ridge.

Cailan and Cullen waited, watching as the Chevalier disappeared into the gloom, the elf becoming a white smear in the distance.

“I think that went quite well,” Cailan said. “I’ll figure out a way to save her from that horrid man…” Cullen nodded, his eyes still fixed on the retreating ghostly shape. The elf needed help, but she didn’t need ‘saving’, he’d seen that on her face moments ago.

The loathing In her eyes hadn’t only been directed at herself. What she needed, Cullen thought, was an opportunity. Not a saviour.

“Let’s go back,” Cullen said with a sigh. “We can talk about how you plan to inform the king that you’re…” he trailed off “Infatuated with an elf.”

Cailan glared at him, taking the reins back to his charger.

“In _love_ , Cullen. Not infatuated.”

Cullen dipped his head in apology as Cailan swung up into the saddle. There would be no convincing the man otherwise. Cailan was stubborn, but he could hold his own, protected by his title. Even if he made a mistake at the ball, Maric’s advisors would be able to smooth it over… but the elven woman… who had her best interests at heart?

He remembered the way she’d looked at him, afraid and defiant, and Cullen felt his stomach sink further. Tonight was not the night he wanted to learn that love at first sight was real… let alone with the object of the Prince’s affections.

Cullen sighed, and climbed back into the saddle. Perhaps, after the ball, he would indulge a little, and get _drunk_.

 


	2. La Grand Adage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rothbart attends the ball, Black swan in tow.

Redcliffe castle was scarcely larger than Rothbart’s summer estate, although to Milliara it was far more impressive. The castle’s thick stone walls were meant to survive a siege compared to the thin plaster. It felt a part of the land in a way that Orlesian architecture just… didn’t. Milliara watched the dark stone pass by over her head as she walked through the main gate.  It was at least four feet thick, if not more.

“Stop gawking,” Rothbart said in a low voice by her ear. Milliara glanced at him from behind her Masque. A last minute change, Rothbart had ordered her to cover the lower half of her face with a soft black gauze, fastened over her hair and hiding her face. Every breath was hot against the fabric, as if it was slowly suffocating her.

 _‘The performance shall be delayed until the ball itself,’_ _he hissed into her ear. ‘You will dance as if the Maker himself was watching. You **will**  make the Prince choose you tomorrow night.’_

_‘I will?’ She asked, confused. She’d expected to be hit, broken after they returned to camp. Questioning him had been the wrong choice. He stepped in so close his nose was almost touching hers._

 “I apologize, Baron,” she said softly as they reached the castle’s courtyard. Lit up by torches, nobles gathered in small clusters, chatting about the prospects to marriage to a Prince. The eligible women dressed in the latest fashions of soft silks, were the first to stare. They reminded Milliara of the colourful birds Orlesians often imported from Tevinter for display. Each lady was dressed in her best, pinks and blues and creams, all the picture of healthy youth while trying to catch the eye of a handsome prince.

The dress Milliara wore was _black_. Taffeta and tulle had been carefully layered and cut into feathers, each of which was covered in chips of obsidian that caught the light of the torches. The skirt would be scandalous alone, sturdy netting and wire holding the tulle in nearly a straight line, exposing Milliara’s lean legs and oddly shaped slippers.

The colourful birds chittered about the Owl and Swan in their midst, whispering about how inappropriate black was. How daring. How scandalous. Surely she was just entertainment for the night. An elf couldn’t be anything but. Who was she with? So dashing, so intimidating… was he also eligible?

Milliara pressed her shoulders back, letting the comments roll off her. The only whispers that caused her any concern were the about the Baron. Technically eligible, his last wife had passed away some time ago. Milliara had seen her go, clinging to silk bedsheets as the baron twisted her lovely hair around her neck.

_‘I want **all**  their attention on you,’ he said, his fingers gripping Milliara’s chin firmly. In the privacy of his tent, he’d removed the masque, and Milliara was faced with his intense glare. Her back against the support pole of the tent, she was trapped. _

_‘I don’t want them to think,’ he said, dragging his thumb over her lips, ‘I want them to stare. To be shocked, to be **mesmerized**  by you. You  **will**  do this.’_

_It hadn’t been a question. The red vial at his neck meant he never **had** to ask. His words were a command that held more weight than any god’s. The risk of denying him for even a breath was too much to bear. Milliara nodded, eyes fixed on his._

_‘Good. And when they are all focused on you,’ he leaned in, his beard brushing her ear, and whispered what she was to do._

At the entrance to the Great Hall waited the man who’d been with the Prince the night before. Dressed in a simple dark red jacket, his mantle of fur was the only thing that hinted at his status… whatever it might be. In the flicker of torches his eyes were golden, watching their approach with quiet intensity.

Milliara remembering the way he’d seen her through her masque that night. While the Prince had seen a damsel to be swept off her feet, this man had seen past that, watched her dance with knowing eyes. Even now, he saw through the gauze and masque to the flawed and frightened woman underneath. Years ago, even a week earlier, and this recognition might have shaken her. But not tonight. Tonight she had too much hanging on her performance to let anything distract her. It was more than the Baron, it was more than the Prince. The key the Crow had left was tucked into the pocket of her cheek, resting along her jawbone and tasting eerily similar to blood.

“Baron Rothbart, Lady Lavellan,” the man said with a small bow. “The Prince waits for you inside.”

The bow had been directed to the Baron, but the man’s eyes never left hers. She wanted to tell him she was sorry… in advance. But the vial around Rothbart’s neck was an invisible noose around her own. All she could offer this man was a serene nod before they walked past him and into the Great Hall.

The Ball had only just begun, with many of the attendees queued by the royal family, or chatting near the trestles of food that were placed along the walls.  The area cleared for dancing was occupied by only a few couples, twirling around to a waltz. Of those dancing, Milliara noticed that only one pair was even close to being on beat.

_‘If you ruin this,’ he’d said, his voice on her neck, fingers finding her throat, and lingering there. Reminding her of how strong he was, and how delicate a neck could be. He’d felt her swallow nervously, and chuckled by her ear._

_‘If you warn them, you will find your son has become… intractable in the circle.’_

_‘I won’t,’ she whispered, looking up at the dark fabric of the tent’s ceiling._

_‘Won’t **what**?’ he’d asked. Voice dangerously low, felt more than heard against her skull._

_‘Won’t ruin this. I won’t. I’ll be perfect,’ she whispered._

_‘For your sake, you had **better** be,’ he growled._

“Your Highnesses,” the Baron’s voice boomed out across the hall. “As a token of appreciation for the hospitality this evening, please… enjoy,” He gestured to the musicians, who had been prepared well before hand. Without the Royal family’s knowledge, of course. What would a surprise be if leaked too early?

The strings began to play as Milliara slipped her arm free of the Baron’s. Carefully he untied the gauze from her and pulled it free, leaving only the Masque on her face.

“Mesmerize them,” he whispered in her ear, and then stepped back.

With slow measured steps, she made her way into the centre of the dance floor. Through her lashes, she could see the Prince staring at her raptly.

The soft murmurs of the audience died as Milliara rose up onto her toes, her posture lifting into the perfected grace that her Master demanded. He might own her life, dictating when she should breathe, and what cadence to breathe in… but during the dance she was the closest to Free as she ever was. From the moment the music started until it ended, her breath and body were hers.

The musicians began to play the melody, a soft sad thing. Milliara realized that what story she told in the dance was left to _her_. The choreography she had rehearsed, the one she’d planned for months slipped through her fingers as she lifted her arms up towards the ceiling, reaching for something she couldn’t have. Closing her eyes, Milliara swept her leg up, brushing her extended wrist overhead.

She held herself still for a moment, before collapsing into movement. She arched back, bearing her heart to the sky, eyes opening to see the thick wooden rafters that held the sky at bay. Straightening, she twisted forward, launching into a series of spins that would be dizzying to watch.

Her feet stopped in front of the Royal family, body freezing as Milliara looked over the shoulder of the Prince to see the man from earlier. A lion watching a girl pretend to be a swan. Milliara let her lips twitch into a heartbroken smile, if only for a flicker-beat. She coiled back, using the guilt she felt and letting it fuel the hurt of her movements.

 _Watch me_ , she thought, throwing herself into a leap. _Flying_ … if only for a moment before gravity pulled her down once more. Milliara wasn’t sure why she cared if the man with golden eyes watched. Was it so that he would see that she wanted no part of this? Or was it for _someone_ to witness who she really was, before she mysteriously disappeared in the nights following?

If the Baron’s gambit succeeded, Milliara didn’t doubt that she would be dead within a month, ‘lost’ in the wilderness between Ferelden and Orlais. If the gambit failed, she’d not last the night.

Milliara leapt, arching and kicking her leg back so it brushed the tight bun at the top of her head. The crowd gasped, but even as she landed, Milliara had thrown herself into a slow layback, a hand reaching up to cup her cheek delicately, the other grasping the air over her chest. Where a dancer’s heart might be.

The lion was watching her, and Milliara let her eyes linger on him as she slowly lowered herself to the floor.

 _Watch me_ , she told him through the arch of her back, the way she extended a leg out in front of her.

 _See me_ , she begged, arms straining up to grasp at the ceiling.

 _Know me_ , she whispered with the slow collapse forward over her extended leg, arms perfectly posed in defeat. She heard the Baron’s footsteps approach, and Milliara couldn’t help but glance up at the lion.

 _Understand me_. She told him, begged him with her eyes as the Baron removed his cloak of feathers and spun it over her, covering her from sight. Milliara stripped off the masque, leaving it on the floor before she disappeared from sight in a puff of smoke.

Stage theatrics, but enough to allow her to hide from view with the skills she’d learned as a bard in Orlais. Even pets were allowed to learn how to hide from everyone. Milliara rolled free of the cloak, hidden from the gathered onlookers. She hesitated in a dark corridor only long enough to see Claudine emerge from the smoke, her jet and obsidian dress similar to Milliara’s, save for the long and sleek skirt. With the Masque on, her hair lightened to silver, she could have been Milliara’s twin. They’d taken time to craft fake ears, painting on the vallaslin that peeked out from the Masque, and Claudine had trained with Milliara long enough to know how to move as a dancer might.

The crowd erupted into applause, blind to the switch. The Prince stepped forward, holding his hands out to Claudine, and Milliara stepped back, disappearing into the shadows of the castle before the effects of her stealth trick wore off.

One of the baron’s servants had left a small sack with a change of clothing by the servant’s stairs. Milliara scooped it up, eager to get out of the baron’s costume. She changed quickly in a darkened corner, pulling the leather vest’s hood up over her hair and ears. She tucked her leggings into the tops of her boots before she laced them up tightly. They were lighter than her pointe shoes, with leather soles to keep her steps quiet, it felt as though she were nearly barefoot.

Milliara slipped down another corridor, slinging the sack over one shoulder. As she passed, she caught a glimpse of the Prince eagerly dancing with Claudine on the floor. Enraptured. Just as the Baron had commanded.

Guilt twisted in her chest, but Milliara didn’t have time to worry about the prince. She pulled the key from her mouth and slipped it into a hidden pocket in her vest. It needed to be delivered to the Inn and she needed to be back in the courtyard before the Baron came looking for her.

After she made it there and back, Milliara could worry about how she was going to escape him, and retrieve her son from the Orlais circle before the Baron pulled his strings and had the boy made Tranquil.

‘One step at a time’ Milliara muttered under her breath, jogging silently down the servant’s hallway towards the gates of the Castle.


	3. A Variation

She’d shown up on the arm of her master, there was no other name for the Chevalier’s relation to her. While slavery might be technically illegal, the men and women who joined the ranks of Gaspard’s Chevaliers were above the law in Orlais.

But they were in Ferelden, Cullen reminded himself. Rothbart shouldn’t be able to treat Milliara as if she were nothing but his … his _possession_. The resentment in the Captain’s chest twisted and grew as he watched Cailain rush forward to take the Swan’s hands to dance.

From the moment he’d first seen her, Cullen was sure that the elf had been watching him. Her eyes watched him warily from behind her masque when he’d met the pair at the entrance to the hall, still expressive, even behind the veil she wore. She watched him again as she danced.

And Andraste preserve him, her dance had only made his heart twist into an even more painful knot. He knew nothing of dancing, but Cullen knew _suffering_ , and he had seen it in her movements. He’d watched, transfixed. He’d told himself that he had come to see if the Baron had any assassination attempts in mind, but Milliara had ripped away that pretense the moment she looked at him. She’d moved like no one he’d ever seen, lighter on her feet and more fluid than the bards he’d met in the Templars.

After such a raw performance, the flash of magic used to change her costume to a ball gown made her performance feel… cheapened. As though it took away who Milliara had been, what she opened up and showed them moments ago was gone with the puff of smoke that changed her dress.

And yet, there she was, dancing and smiling with Cailan… Cullen frowned. Although he didn’t know the woman, he knew _people_. And people couldn’t recover that quickly from bearing their heart to the world, Orlesian Bard or no. The longer he watched her dance with Cailan, the more off-putting he found her. There was something that he couldn’t quite figure out, the way she held her head? The slight sway of her hips as she waltzed? Something was off, or was it just that he was feeling a slow burning envy that the Prince was dancing with her instead of him?

“I don’t believe we have been formally introduced,” The baron said, walking up from Cullen’s left side. His weak side, should steel be drawn. Even though the Baron was not visibly armed, the man’s choice of approach rankled, all the more because Cullen knew it was carefully thought out.

“We haven’t, Baron,” Cullen said with a curt nod. He held little interest in talking with the man after watching the way he’d gripped the elf’s neck the night before. Just remembering the way the man’s fingers had dug into Milliara’s neck made Cullen grit his teeth.

“And I do not need one, Captain Rutherford,” the Baron said, stepping next to Cullen and following the captain’s gaze to the dancing Prince and elf. The man’s lips were hidden by his masque, but Cullen was sure the bastard was smiling.

“Your record of service precedes you. First the fallen circle and then Kirkwall’s uprising? I’m rather surprised that the Theirins are so willing to entrust the lives of their heir to a man so well known for failure.”

Cullen crossed his arms over his chest, wishing that he could leave the party and the Baron’s company, but he refused the give the Baron the satisfaction of seeing such a reaction. Instead, he said nothing, waiting for the man to grow bored and leave.

“Well, I must correct myself: The eradication of corrupted could hardly be a failure. You were responsible for three, were you not? Three mages killed by a young Templar…” the baron said, and Cullen could hear him take a sip of wine through a slit in the masque’s lips. The bastard was probably swishing it around to taste the ‘notes’ of it. Or whatever Orlesian bullshit the nobles spouted about the drink. It was grapey, sometimes it was red.

“A rumour,” Cullen said, his voice hard even to his own ears. “Do you have a point Baron Rothbart?” Cullen looked into the man’s eyes, finding nothing there. Flat and hard, they had crinkled in amusement, though Cullen had seen enough of the man to know that the amusement was fleeting. The only true emotions this man could feel was anger, and sadism.

“Well, should my ward become the next queen of Ferelden, I would hope that they employ a more suited captain of the guard. I am rather fond of her, you see. I’ve spent so much time and effort developing her that I find myself over cautious with the idea of handing her over, even to a Prince.”

‘Ward’, said as though the Baron was protecting the elf. If there was a single person that she needed protection from, it was the Baron, Cullen was sure. ‘Ward’ was just another word for slave.

“I’m sure that should she _choose_ to become princess, she will be happy to discuss the matter of protection with the King. I imagine she would relocate all the alienage elves from Orlais to avoid the hunts you Chevaliers are so fond of,” Cullen said, his voice dripping poison. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

Cullen didn’t wait for the Baron to reply, turning on his heel and walking from the main hall. Even with such barbed words, he knew he’d lost whatever Orlesian Game the baron had just played. Still, the man hadn’t needed to _laugh_ at him as he left.

“Jim, Harding,” he snapped at the two posted recruits by the head table. “Assign extra eyes on the Baron and his…” Cullen glanced back at where Cailan was still dancing, completely absorbed in the elf. The longer he watched her, the more something felt wrong. He realised that since the change of dress, she hadn’t looked at him once. Was… it just imagined, or was it just jealousy? Cullen wasn’t sure, but he also wasn’t willing to risk ignoring his gut feeling that something was wrong.

“And his _companion_.” They nodded, and Harding slipped away to find someone who might be free for the extra detail.

“The King has been looking for Prince Alistair,” Jim said, clearing his throat lighty. Cullen realised he was still staring at the elf, and turned back to look at his lieutenant. “I would imagine he’d like to speak with you. The King, I mean, not the Prince.”

Cullen rubbed the bridge of his nose, realising that he hadn’t seen the younger prince since before the baron’s arrival. It wasn’t a surprise that the illegitimate Theirin was hiding from his potential wives, but it was a complication that he would have happily done without.

“Thank you, I’ll go speak with the King now.”

**

Redcliffe’s townsfolk crowded the Inn’s common room. From outside, Millara could hear uproarious laughter and shouted bets about which brides the princes would choose. The gathering made Milliara’s job both easier, and much harder. The noise from drunken townsfolk would cover any ‘issues’ she might run into in the room, but it would be far more difficult to remain unseen, and impossible to sneak in through the main entrance.

Circling around to the back, Milliara searched for an alternate entrance. There was the servant’s entrance at the back, and a trellis up part of the wall to the second storey. Taking the door would be easier but risk a servant seeing her. On a normal job, it was a manageable risk, but tonight she needed to get in and out as fast as possible.

Otherwise her already short lifespan wouldn’t continue through until morning.

Milliara pulled herself up hand over foot, poking her head into the first room she came across. It seemed to be occupied by a rather enthusiastic couple, and Milliara moved onto the next window. There, wedged between the window pane and the sill was a single black feather.

“The crow,” she muttered under her breath, shimmying along the wall to the marked window. Through the cracked glass she could hear arguing within. One antivan, the accent was recognizable anywhere, and the rest seemed to be local to Ferelden. Milliara eased up closer to the window to hear what the argument was about.

“… know the mark would be gone?” the Antivan voice said, drawling and relaxed.

“I dunno, because it’s yer bloody job!” the fereldan man was less relaxed, Milliara could hear the liquid courage slurring his words. A poor choice for a companion, especially in an assassination… if that’s what this was. Although her fingers were starting to ache, Milliara didn’t dare to move just yet. She needed a better sense of who was in the room, and what their intentions were.

Funny how the talking crow’s note hadn’t mentioned any assassins, just to place the key in the room of the Cousland girl.

“Actually it was hers,” the Antivan said. There was a long pause before a female spoke.

“Well she was in here and the door was locked from the outside…” the woman said. “She shouldn’t have been able to leave.”

“Then maybe she went out the window,” the Fereldan man said, tone sarcastic. Milliara listened to his footsteps make their way to where she clung to the wall. Adjusting her grip, Milliar waited until the window was yanked up. A man’s head and shoulders poked out, looking down for any sign of a ladder, or… escaped woman, Milliara supposed.

“Sorry,” she whispered, and the half-drunk man had just enough time to lift his head up before she reached down, hooking her fingers into his belt and _pulled_. With her feet planted against the plaster wall of the inn, she used the leverage and the man’s own tipsiness to haul him out of the window.

The man shouted as he fell down to the cobbles below, landing head first with a sickening crunch. From inside the room, Milliara heard a muffled curse in antivan (she assumed), and waited for a second head to appear from the window.

“Who’s there?” shouted the female voice. Milliara waited for further movement, clinging to the wall with aching fingers. Unfortunately, no one’s head poked out to see what had happened to the Ferelden man, leaving Milliara with very little choice. She sighed.

“Do you think that whoever it is would answer?” The Antivan voice asked.

Milliara shifted her grip, pulling out a small spoon that she had liberated from the ball. Silver and polished to a high shine, she held it out, tilting the spoon to see the reflection of the room. It was stretched and blurred, but it let her see that the man was by the bed in the room, while the woman was closer to the window.

With a bow…

“Shit,” Milliara hissed as an arrow punched the spoon out of her hand, sending it spinning out into the night. Unwilling to wait for the woman to notch another arrow, Milliara grabbed the top of the window frame and swung inward, letting go and landing in a crouch on the inside of the room. Whatever it ahd looked like before, it was ransacked now, things strewn about, mattress ripped and feathers and straw everywhere.

Another arrow loosed, narrowly missing her shoulder as Milliara threw herself forward, tucking and rolling towards the woman. The woman blinked as Milliara popped up, slamming a fist into the woman’s throat.

She gasped and gurgled, letting go of the bow to grab at her throat. A mistake, one Milliara had counted on. She caught the bow, twisting it and pulling up so the string caught around the woman’s neck. With a savage twist, Milliara turned the string into a garrotte, her knee in the woman’s back as she pulled on the bow to end the woman’s struggles.

It left her open, and Milliara winced as she felt the knife slam into her left shoulder, lodging between the joint and her chest.

The antivan.

“Normally I would love to see such a pretty face want to join in,” the man drawled. “However this is Crow business, so… if you would be so kind as to die now…”

The itching heat in her shoulder was already starting to spread towards her chest, and as the Antivan confirmed that he was a crow, Milliara felt her heart sink. An elf, though not one that might hold any kind of kinship with her. The Antivan Crows were notorious, even among Orlesian courts.

Poison.

“But you are not… the Cousland girl,” he said with a frown.

“No shit,” Milliara gasped, holding the dying woman up between her and the Crow. “Couslands are human.” Her arms were starting to tire, muscles burning as she struggled to hold the dead weight of a human up. But if she dropped the woman then she’d be open to the Crow’s attack.

“So, who are you? There is an antidote to the poison on that knife. If you are willing to speak, I might be willing to cure you,” he said, a lazy smile on his face.

Milliara glared, wanting nothing more than to wipe it from his face.

“Are you here to kill her? The Cousland girl?” Milliara asked, debating whether it would be easier to drop the woman’s body or edge towards the window.

“Don’t tell me that the bastard hired more than one person!” the Crow said, a frown touching his face. “That is highly unprofessional.”

Milliara let go of the human woman, and pulled the knife from her shoulder. The pain made her see stars, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. Even still, her eyes watered with pain, and she staggered back into a vanity, nearly falling over.

“No,” she muttered, feeling her lips growing numb. That wasn’t a good sign. “Hired to help her.” Although as it was, Milliara realised she was the one who was going to need help, and quickly. “Course,” she mumbled, pushing herself straight. Blood was cascading out her shoulder, soaking the front of her tunic, leaving her skin warm and sticky under the cloth.

“Course?” The Antivan said, swaggering closer.

“I hope you have the antidote on you,” Milliara said, stepping forward and slamming the bloodied knife into the Antivan’s leg.

“Otherwise we’re both going to die here,” she said, and slipped to the floor, fingers too numb to hold onto the knife. She smiled, leaning back against the destroyed mattress. Grabbing a nearby nightshirt, Milliara pressed the wadded fabric to her shoulder to try to stop the bleeding.

“You…” the Antivan muttered. “Why did you do that?” Already his speech was slurred. Milliara couldn’t see him anymore, the stars and flashes of light were taking over her sight. Something moved in the corner of her eye, shaped like a woman.

“Tsk, fine mess this is,” the voice of the talking crow said. When it spoke again, Milliara wasn’t able to understand the words, already fading into unconsciousness.


	4. Coda

The poison was still in her, blurring her vision. The moment that the Cousland girl turned her back, Milliara slipped from the window. Hands too weak to hold on had given way, and Milliara landed on the Ferelden man she’d killed not long before.

The impact hurt, but not nearly as much as it would have, had she missed the man’s back. Milliara grit her teeth, rolling off the body and onto her knees. Hot blood was seeping from the wound in her shoulder, making the black shirt she wore stick to her skin. It took her a couple breaths to realise that she was kneeling in the man’s blood, cold and starting to conceal in the night air.

Tucking her hurt arm in against her chest, Milliara forced herself to her feet. The walk back to the Castle would be long and hard, but she only had so long before Rothbart would notice that she was gone. Once he did, her time alive would be short. There was no way that he would believe she was attacked by bandits, or assassins. How could she be, if she was hiding from everyone?

By seeing her condition, he would immediately see that she had betrayed him. That meant she had work to do before she walked into the very last performance of her life.

The thought of rest, of no longer wearing the Masque of the Baron, of not worrying if she had looked at him incorrectly, or if someone else had provoked him… the thought of ending things on her own terms was _liberating_.

“Another way,” she murmured, recalling the words of the talking crow. Of The woman of many years who had set her on this path. Milliara reached up, curling her fingers under the masque and tore it off. The fresh night air felt wonderful on her bare forehead and cheeks. It fell from her fingers onto the bloody cobbles.

Already she felt lighter, the pain fading in light of a clear end to all of the pain she’d lived through. Milliara began to walk, eyes fixed on the castle ahead. By sun up, this would be over. 

_All_ of it, for good or for bad.

*

Cullen rubbed the bridge of his nose as Alistair babbled. First about some beautiful woman that needed help from him and then asking about Cailan’s personal Damsel. He just wanted to grab both the Theirin boys and shake them until some sense rattled into their heads.

At least Alistair seemed to have talked to his infatuation before deciding he loved her.

“Really, what do you mean ‘too’?” The younger Theirin asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “I mean, shouldn’t you be standing next to Cailan looking like you’d rather be running drills than dealing with nobles and parties.”

“I _would_ rather be running drills,” Cullen said dryly. Instead of answering with words, he pulled aside the curtain so they could see out onto the main hall. Cailan had stopped dancing with the elf, and was walking up to the King with his hand in hers.

“Um… correct me if I’m wrong,” Alistair said, following Cullen’s eyes. “But that looks to be an elf. That my brother is about to introduce to the King. Our dad. _That_ king. That king who Cailan has always hid the ladies he makes ‘friends’ with from.”

As they watched, the black swan stumbled on the first step up to the dais where King Maric waited. A soft gasp rippled through the gathered nobles. Cailan steadied her, leaning his head down to her ear to whisper something.

“Oh that’s unfortunate,” Alistair said, hiding a chuckle behind a cough. “First impressions and all. Dad’s face is saying it all…”

But Cullen wasn’t looking at the King’s face, he was watching the Black Swan closely. She had tripped on her dress… an action that didn’t match the grace with which the dancer had shown them all earlier that night. It could have been nothing, but Cullen had learned long ago to trust his instincts about things that weren’t quite right.

“I’ll help you with your lady’s issue,” he said, grabbing Alistair’s arm and pulling him forward. “If you go and distract Cailan and the woman. Right now. Something’s not right.”

“You’ll help?” Alistair said, looking at Cullen with a hopeful smile. “Excellent! I’ll go talk about…” Cullen cut off the Prince by shoving him into the Hall. He had no doubt Alistair would stall Cailan and the black swan long enough for him to find Jim or Rylen. He would need more guards, posted ear to the King, the Princes. The woman on Cailan’s arm was _not_ the woman they’d met on the beach. He was sure of it, now.

“Captain!”

Cullen turned, eyebrows drawing into a deeper frown as he watched Harding jog up to him. He’d asked her to tail Rothbart, why was she here?

“You need to come see this,” she said, eyes wide. “In the courtyard, Rylen’s there but I don’t know how long she’ll wait.”

“Who?” Cullen asked, gesturing for her to fill him in on the way. He wasn’t worried about Rylen, the man could hold his own against almost anyone in Thedas if he had to. But tonight was already a mess, the last thing he needed was some noble getting beaten by a member of the guard.

“An elf, like… like exactly the twin of the one that’s dancing with Prince Cailan,” Harding said. “Thing is, she’s trying to get _in_ to the Hall, not out.”

Cullen tried to make sense of what Harding had told him. The woman with Cailan wasn’t the elf he’d met on the shore, he knew that much. But why had Milliara- gone to the courtyard? Why was she trying to get back in? Nothing was making sense, and Cullen knew he’d have to focus on what needed to be done instead of what might have been done.

“Extra guards on the Theirins. Get the Baron and the black swan away from Cailan,” Cullen ordered. “But don’t let them leave. We need to find out what in the Maker’s name is going on here.” Captivating elves that tugged at his heart, love struck princes and a Chevalier with unknown motives, Cullen just wanted to get through the night and have a stiff drink after. Or three.

“Yessir,” Harding said, and turned back the way they’d come.  

Cullen shouldered open the side door to the courtyard. He saw Rylen standing with his sword in hand, facing down the slight figure of the elf. Along the walls were scandalized nobles and a handful of guards shifting their weight nervously from foot to foot.

“…now look here,” Rylen was saying, eyes fixed on the elf who stood in front of him. “Until the Captain gets here, you’re not going anywhere.” Compared to the Starkhaven guard, she looked like a wisp of white. She was standing crookedly, her left arm tucked in at an awkward angle, and there was a splatter of something on her face. Cullen blinked in surprise as he realized she wasn’t wearing the Orlesian masque.

“Or _what_?” she asked, voice slightly slurred. Was she drunk? Cullen was sure she was paler than she had been earlier that night, and as he neared, he could see a trickle of blood from her nose that caught on her upper lip.

“Or I’ll be forced to put you under arrest,” Rylen said, his voice calm. The elf saw him first, her eyes flicking over as he walked towards the pair. The moment he saw her eyes, Cullen was sure she was the one who had danced. The real swan, though she wasn’t a swan any longer.

“What’s going on?” Cullen asked, gesturing for Rylen to step back. The man did but left his sword at the ready. Cullen didn’t blame him, the elf- _Milliara_ \- didn’t inspire any sort of trust at the moment. An Orlesian bard without her masque, bloody, hurt and demanding access to a ball? Cullen wouldn’t have let her in either.

She straightened under his gaze, pushing her shoulders back with only the faintest wince of pain. This close he could see the black material was wet, clinging to her skin underneath. He frowned, looking up from the wound to her. As much as he wanted to ask, he could tell that she wasn’t willing to share. Her face, though wan, was hard.

He could tell that this was the real woman who’d been hiding under the masque. Fierce, damaged, but determined. Maker save him, but she was more beautiful in that moment than she had been dressed in finery earlier that night.

“The Baron’s going to challenge the Prince to a duel,” she said. Her words were careful, but even still Cullen could hear that slight softness that spoke of drink… or of being drugged. “The prince said he was honourable but when tested, he chose the wrong swan.”

The gathered nobles gasped, and erupted into whispers. Cullen felt numb for a moment, and he desperately tried to remember what he knew of Chevaliers. The fighting elite, they were known to be brutal but held to their own code of honour. However twisted it might seem to outsiders.

Milliara smiled slightly, but Cullen could see the sadness on her face.

“I wish… I wish there was more time,” she said softly. She fell into a crouch, dark smoke erupting from her feet and billowing up to hide her. Cullen rushed forward, reaching for her through the smoke, but his fingers passed through it without finding anything.

“Captain, the door!” Rylen shouted, and Cullen turned to see Milliara reappear at the door to the great Hall, yanking it open and darting inside.

“Protect the Prince!” Cullen shouted, racing after the elf, but he knew he was already too late. She’d waited for him, to tell him. Why else would she let herself be stopped? But _why_?

**

Her shoulder ached with each step, despite the makeshift bandage she’d wrapped it in on the way to the Castle. Even after downing the small elfroot potion in her pack, the wound _burned_. The bastard Crow had had to use a strong poison, hadn’t he?

The great Hall was still crowded, with nobles talking and dancing and _being in her way_. Milliara could hear the guards behind her, their armor clanking as they ran. Gritting her teeth, she leapt up onto one of the trestles, using it to bypass the crush of the crowd.

That got the notice of the gathered, and they gasped as a blood-splattered elf ran over their precious food and drink.  Ahead, she could see the Baron and Claudine turn and stare at her, both their mouths falling open in shock. Good little Cygnette, the only one to survive the Baron’s training, finally rebelling. It brought no small amount of satisfaction to her as she leapt off the table and landed near them. The prince was there, his hand in Claudine’s,

“ ** _Baron Rothbart_** ,” She said, forcing her voice to project so that _everyone_ in the hall could hear. Bardic lessons had taught her more than just how to be pretty and dance, after all. “I’ve had enough of this charade.”

“What are you doing?” the baron hissed, taking a step forward as if to strike her. But he reigned himself in, glancing at the gathered nobles. In Orlais, no one would have batted an eye at a Chevalier beating a wayward elf. But They weren’t _in_ Orlais.

She circled him, each step filled with a bravado that she didn’t feel. To show weakness in front of the Baron was to submit, and that was something she wasn’t willing to do. Certain that she was going to vomit, or let her voice shake, Milliara turned her eyes towards the Prince. The look of shock on his face brought a grim smile to hers.

 _No, not the swan you thought I was_ , she thought. _A damsel to be saved, yes… but not by you. Not by anyone but herself._

“I don’t understand,” the Prince said, dropping Claudine’s arm as if it were a viper. He backed up, bumping into what must have been the other prince. They looked far too much alike to be anything else.  “Who are _you_ , then?” the golden prince asked, staring at Claudine. The ginger one stayed quiet, but Milliara saw him place a hand on his brother’s shoulder to draw him back.

"His sister,” Milliara said, walking up to stand next to Claudine.

“It was a test,” growled Rothbart. He stalked over to where Milliara stood, looming over her. She could smell the wine on his breath, but kept her eyes fixed on his. Glassy and flat, he’d let his social Masque drop even if he still wore the physical representation.

 “To see if you were honourable as you so claimed,” he was speaking to the Prince, but kept his eyes on Milliara.

“It was a _trick_ ,” she said. It was hard not to look away to try to mitigate what punishment was going to follow. But the thought of resting, of an end to everything helped. She had a fixed point of pain in sight. One that no matter how angry the Baron got, he wouldn’t be able to push her past.

“A _dishonourable_ one,” she added, sneering at her master. “Meant to trick you into a duel where he could punish you for wanting one of his _things_.”

“’Dishonourable’?” The Baron roared. In the corner of her eye, Milliara saw the royals take a step back at the outburst. Even Claudine edges away from the baron. “The only dishonourable one here is the Prince. Promising to love _my_ pet and then not recognizing her from another woman? The man deserves to be challenged for such a slight.”

The baron finally looked away from her, staring down his nose at the Princes, lips twisted in disgust.

“Unless he is too cowardly…”

The words had the effect the Baron wanted. The room erupted into jeers defending the heir, and the ginger prince had to hold the golden one back.

“ENOUGH.” The king’s voice boomed, and he pushed his way through the crowd to stand next to his sons. “The heir to Ferelden will not fight of _any_ duel. Since you are an honoured guest, and you feel so…slighted… he can name a champion. Would that be amenable?”

Milliara could see the King’s distaste for the compromise, but it was one he must make unless he wanted to risk losing any esteem amongst Orlesian elite. To do that was to risk Ferelden’s status as an independent nation.

“But I-” the Prince began, only to have his father cut him off with a glare.

“You will _not_.” The king snapped. “You have caused enough of a mess this evening.”

Rothbart’s smile was disgustingly selfsatisfied, and the bow he offered to the King and Princes was pure insult.

“I find such terms amenable. Who would be champion of Prince Cailan?” He looked at the second Prince, and around at the Nobles. The Captain of the guard was pushing through the crowd, and Milliara could see his mouth begin to open.

“I would,” Milliara said, stepping up to face Rothbart. “You win, and you keep what honour you have. I win, and I’m free of you.”

The baron began to laugh, only to realise that she was serious.

“I would,” the Captain said, but Milliara couldn’t let herself look at him. He seemed a good man, but if he fought, he would ruin everything. A good man would die, and she’d lose that fixed point of suffering. No, she wouldn’t let him.

“Or are you afraid of losing to your ‘pet’?” Milliara taunted. “Of course, when the owl’s away the swans play, so I’m not sure calling me your pet is even accurate.” She could see the conflict on Rothbart’s face. Fighting an elf was less honourable than a captain of the guard, but with every word she said he wanted to punish her further.

“You’re hurt,” the Captain hissed, putting his hand on her forearm. Milliara looked over at him and smiled slightly.

“And you’re too good a man to let fight him,” she said. A flash of her hand, and she’d sunk a small stiletto through his forearm. Coated with nettles, it would deaden the limb. Make it useless for at least a couple of hours. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and yanked the knife free.

The crowd gasped, the captain grunted in pain and the Baron began to laugh.


	5. Finale

There was a knife at her throat, the steel warm where it had been held against skin. Milliara looked down the blade at the freckled prince, who’s previously sunny demeanour had disappeared. There was more to this one than she’d thought, and had there been less riding on her immediate reaction, Miliara might have laughed at herself for misreading him. Instead, she calmly moved her blood-stained hands out to either side, palms to him. She wore the blood of four people tonight: herself, the Crow, the mercenary and the Captain. The only blood she meant to add was that of the Baron.

“Why… did you  _do_  that?” The blond Captain hissed next to her, his hand clamped around his forearm, just above where the hilt of the stiletto rested. Blood had started to stain his jacket, but it was his face that made her feel guilty. The hurt in his eyes that had nothing to do with the knife in his arm. Pain was relative, and Milliara clenched her jaw to keep from apologizing. Maybe, if he hated her that would be a good thing.

“That’s a good question,” the armed Prince asked. “Why did you stab the Captain of _the King’s Guard_?” ‘Her’ prince, Cailan, was busy staring at her with wide eyes. His normally radiant face had gone pallid, all affection gone from his eyes.

“She saved him from further harm,” the Baron said amidst his laughter.  “Duels amongst Honourable men rarely stop before serious injury. Let her fight. Should she survive, then I will acquiesce to whatever punishment your highnesses choose.”

Milliara watched the Baron, a familiar gleam smear his face as he talked of punishment. It was the look he wore when he curled fingers over throat, fingers digging into the soft meat. The look he wore with threats on his lips as he squeezed until stars bloomed over her eyes, and the look he wore as he let her catch enough breath to last another minute of suffering. And another. And another…

She spat at the Baron, the movement forward enough to prick her skin on the blade. The spittle landed on the floor, just shy of the Baron’s boot. It didn’t matter that it missed. The act of rebellion gave Milliara what she wanted. While the smirk was still on the baron’s lips, his expression had soured. Even with the promise of punishment at hand, it seemed he couldn’t stand insults.

 _Good_.

“Father?” the freckled prince asked. Milliara kept her eyes on the Baron.  

“Someone get Captain Rutherford a healer,” the king sounded annoyed. Milliara couldn’t blame him, not really. He’d hoped to get daughters in law from this ball, instead he had an embarrassed son, an insulted Chevalier, and a wounded Captain of the guard.

In Orlais, that would qualify the ball as the event of the season, but Ferelden was different.

“As for the elf…” the King said, pausing for a moment before he let out a tired sigh. “Let her fight in place of Cailan. But, this duel will be until submission, after wards she shall be remanded into our custody for further judgement. An attack on our guard is an attack on the Theirins.”

Milliara finally looked away from Rothbart, meeting the eyes of the Prince who had the knife at her throat.

“Rothbart always kills,” she whispered to the prince. “Better it's me.” She flickered a small smile at the man then gently reached up and guided the knife from her throat. The tip was red, and she was struck by an absurd thought of her blood staining his fine clothes. She felt worse about that than disrupting his chance to find a wife. The look on the prince’s face might have hurt her years ago. He looked so… helpless.

“If I might interrupt…” a bored voice cut in.

Milliara looked over to see a raven haired woman step out from the crowd. Was it a trick of the light, or were her eyes… _yellow_? The woman wore a dark dress, suited for the occasion, but not for _her_. Milliara recognized the calm confidence in her step,  “Perhaps I could be of some assistance. Our dear Baron would hardly wish to fight a woman who’s not armed, correct?”

The woman held a wrapped bundle in her hands, and held it out to Milliara.

“My mother sends her regards,” she added with a small smirk, and lifted a corner of the fabric to reveal a pair of hilts.

“And you are…?” the freckled prince asked, arching an eyebrow as Milliara walked slowly over to the woman with the proffered knives. Her mother? The half-seen woman from the Inn… Milliara was sure she too had yellow eyes, though the rest of her had been too blurry to make out.

“Tis no concern of _yours_ , prince,” the woman said coolly. “However I would suggest that the duel move to the courtyard, lest the blood to be spilled stain the lovely floors.”

The woman placed a hand on Milliara’s injured shoulder as Milliara reached her. Looking up into those yellow eyes, it would be easy to get lost in trying to figure this woman out. But there wasn’t the time. Milliara took the offered bundle, hugging it to herself as she felt the wound in her shoulder begin to warm… then _itch_ as it started to heal.

“Tell her thank you,” Milliara whispered, unwrapping the knives further to inspect them.

“You may tell her yourself, if you choose to live,” the woman said quietly, focused on the spell at hand. “Once she has returned from fetching your son.”

Milliara blinked, certain she’d heard wrong.

“She’s- but he’s in the-” she murmured, glancing over to where the Baron watched with crossed arms. Only when she was sure that he couldn’t hear did she look back at the woman. The witch. “But he’s in the circle, in Orlais. I didn’t tell… but…”

“You don’t know my mother.” The witch smiled but it was tempered by something, cynicism perhaps. The itching intensified before she pulled her hand back and wiped the blood off her palm onto Milliara’s cleaner sleeve. “Should you choose to survive, find us in the Wilds.”

Survive? Milliara looked back at the Baron whose eyes hadn’t left her since she’d been named the prince’s champion. Just like that the fixed point of suffering was gone, replaced by something far crueler.

Hope.

“Right,” she said, rolling her shoulder. It still hurt, the muscles and flesh too damaged to be healed with such a short attempt, but the pain had lessened. It would manage long enough. It _had_ to, because now there was something worth living for. “Shall we? Ladies first,” she asked gesturing for him to lead, with a mocking smirk that she knew would irk the Baron. If there was a chance to beat him, she would use it. Even if it left her

Sniggers through the crowd where muffled into coughs and sniffs. The freckled prince offered a muffled ‘sorry’ midway through his cough, ruining any chance at subterfuge he might have claimed. The Baron’s mouth pressed into a thin, colourless, line. If he was furious now, Milliara would

“Fetch me a longsword and shield,” he growled.

**

The courtyard was still well lit with torches, those that had burnt down were replaced and a circle had been marked out in the dirt. The partygoers had gathered around to watch: the royal men stood together at one side while the dark haired woman stood on the other, arms crossed with an amused smirk. The Captain, arm now bandaged and in a sling, stood next to the freckled prince. His expression was pinched, but whether it was from pain or from being forced to watch from the sidelines, Milliara wasn’t sure.

Across from her stood the Baron, his long cape removed and held by Claudine who stood behind him. His mask glittered in the torchlight, hiding his eyes in shadow. He looked inhuman, impossible to beat, and as he lifted his sword up in salute Milliara focused on how tightly his lips pressed together.

He was angry, and angry men made mistakes.

“Do you remember,” she asked, twirling the gifted knives in her hands. “The first time we met? _I do_.” They were well balanced, the grips slightly stickier than she was used to, and the pommels spiked. These were not the beautiful but dulled knives Rothbart made her ‘practice’ with.

He waited for her to salute back. Instead, Milliara spat onto the ground.

“A trio of chevaliers, drunk and hard for some _rabbit_ blood. You broke down the door, expecting alienage women and children waiting to be slaughtered. Such _brave_ men,” she purred, circling towards his left. He lowered his sword into a defensive crouch, his shield guarding his body.

“Full of liquid courage, and finding a den of hunters instead instead of prey.” Every step was calculated, from the sway of her hips to the twist of her shoulders. She was screaming predator, taunting him as much with her body as her words. “What was the name of the with the red beard again?”

“Are you here to talk? Or here to fight?” he snarled, spittle at his lips.

 _Good_.

Milliara ignored the thousand voices in her head that he’d put there. Begging her to stop, reminding her how he punished his last pet.

“Both,” Milliara said with a small shrug.

“Yves!” she said gesturing with the knife in her hand, as if she’d just remembered. “He was your friend, he didn’t even see the knife that killed him. I did though, because I _put it there_. One of the famed chevaliers, the elite of Orlais… taken down by a ‘knife-eared whore’.”

The shift of the Baron’s feet was subtle, but familiar to her from the decade of watching him duel. The moment she saw his weight shift, she dove towards the centre of the dueling circle, tucking and rolling as she struck the ground. Her shoulder exploded into pain as barely-knit flesh ripped under the impact. Milliara made it to her knee, twisting to see the Baron recovering from his charge towards her.

Dropping the long knife she yanked the small assassin’s blade from her boot and threw it at Rothbart’s back. The small black blade was laced with deathroot, carefully cultivated and extracted into a deadly poison. All she needed was for it to break the skin, but Milliara prayed to Andruil it would sink hilt-deep in the muscles of the Baron’s shoulder.

He spun, knocking the knife aside with his shield. The dark blade spun out of the circle towards the crowd. She had miscalculated. Without his armor, he could move faster, recover more easily. He rushed at her again, this time she wasn’t ready.

Milliara blocked the heavy downswing, the power of it nearly knocking her down. She tucked and rolled away from his follow up swing, feeling the blade cut through the air just above where her head had been.

“Hold!” shouted a voice from outside the fight. Milliara managed to get her feet under her, and she glanced over to see who had shouted for a pause to the fight.

The Baron’s shield caught her full in the chest, lifting her up and throwing her through the air onto her back. The pain exploded through her, all air gone from her lungs. Curling up around herself, Milliara looked around at the swimming faces around her.

“ _Hold_!” Shouted another voice, but she wasn’t able to hear who it was. The ringing in her ears was too loud. Above her, closest to her stood yellow-eyes. _Survive_ , she’d said. Survive and her son would be in the Wilds with her and the woman of many years.

Milliara blinked, looking away from the woman to see the dark form of Rothbart looming over her. Her good arm still held a knife, but the other was gone, dropped from numb fingers. All she could grab was a handful of dirt and dry grass.

“You know why I came back for you?” the Baron snarled, lifting his sword in preparation to drive it down into her. “Your spirit. I wanted to _break_ you before I killed you.”

“Failed,” she coughed, the words weak on her lips.

Someone was still yelling to hold as he drove the sword down. It sank into the dirt, right where her belly would have been. It scored deeply along her back, but he’d missed a killing blow. Milliara sat up, her free hand grabbing onto his belt and levering herself up to stab her knife into the back of his knee. With a vicious twist and spurt of blood, she severed his hamstring.

Rothbart screamed in pain, leaning heavily on his sword’s hilt to stay upright. The injured leg buckled forward, the knee smacking into Milliara’s cheek painfully. She shifted her grip on the Baron’s belt to a handful of his jacket and threw herself backwards, bracing her foot against the Baron’s good thigh. He toppled, rolling over her and landing on his back behind her.

More people were shouting now. The circle smaller as the audience had shifted to see what was going on.

Struggling to her feet, Milliara yanked the sword out of the ground, her knife still buried in Rothbart’s leg.

“Yield,” she snarled, holding the heavy sword in front of her with both hands. Her left side was soaked with blood from her shoulder, the muscles in her hurt arm shuddering with effort. But her right hand was still and strong, and all she needed was for him to admit defeat.

Survive.

She could _survive_.

“I said _HOLD_.” The Captain ran over to her, pushing the blade down with his good hand. He grabbed her shirt, pulling her face close to his. But there was no relief in his face, only fear hidden by anger.

“What was on your knife?” He asked. Milliara blinked, confused. The knife? The knife was in Rothb- The captain turned her around roughly to see the King collapsed, his face pale and lips purple.  Both princes were kneeling by him, and a healer already had their hands on the king’s leg, the green glow The small knife she’d thrown at Rothbart had stuck into his calf. Not deeply, but enough for the poison to circulate.

“Deathroot,” she stammered, looking over the king’s pallid form and the way his hands and feet had begun to shake.

“He needs elfroot poultices,” she said, turning back to look at the Commander. “And leeches. Many, many leech-” Behind him, she saw the dark shape of Rothbart rise to his feet. Instinct took over. Milliara slammed herself into the Commander, knocking him out of the way. The knife, pulled from his leg, bit deep into her back. All at once she couldn’t breathe, each gasp brought foam up to her lips, and as she spat it out, more rose up to replace it.

She couldn’t hold herself up any more, and crumpled forwards into the dirt. The pain thrumming through her was so much, so strong, that she was sure the throb of life leaving her was the heartbeat of the world itself.

Milliara watched as the Princes hefted the king up carefully, carrying him towards the castle. The people followed, nervous for the future of their King.

A scarred hand reached down in front of her, picking up the sword she’d dropped. When had she dropped it? Twisting her head was exhausting, but she did, looking up to see the bright sword slice the Owl’s head from his body.

Milliara closed her eyes in relief as hot blood rained over her. Strong hands grabbed her, but they felt far away. The pain, her body, was so far away now.

But her son… would be safe.  Free of the circle, and safe from the Baron.


	6. Encore

Cullen watched as the healer worked, not sure how to help but wishing there was something more he could be doing. All he could do to help right now was to pray. He had, for the first hour. The sister of the Baron had been sent back to Orlais with his body. The guests had gone home, and now all there was to do was wait.

His shoulder was pressed against the cold stone wall long enough to send pins and needles down to his fingertips. Easing off it, he stretched his hand, flexing and clenching his fingers once or twice to work the feeling back into them. His other arm was starting to regain feeling, but it felt as though someone had stuffed wool into his arm.

Cullen focused on trying to touch his index to his thumb let him measure the time gone by that the healer worked. A hair’s breadth apart this time. When she’d started he’d struggled to get his finger and thumb a half inch apart.

“How is she doing?” Cullen asked, for the tenth time. The healer sighed and looked over her shoulder at him. The Mabari at her feet sighed heavily, its head resting on the jail floor between its paws. Rylen had suggested the new healer, since the others were all busy trying to save the King.

“Less almost dead than the last time you asked, Captain. I really wish you’d let me see to your arm, for all we know it could be a slow acting poison-”

“I told you, I’m already regaining feeling,” he said, walking over to look at the pale elf’s body. She was lying on her front, on the cot, he had to crouch by her head to get a look at her face. Her brow was knit into a frown, teeth gritted against the pain.

“How long have you been awake?” he asked, eyebrows drawing into a frown.

“A while,” she gasped, breath catching as the healer began to stitch up the long slash across her back. A single violet eye opened to look at him blearily before it squeezed shut as the healer’s needle pressed through her skin. A quick glance at the healer’s face told Cullen that the mage wasn’t overly concerned with how the elf felt.

It had been difficult to convince her to work on Milliara at all, especially while the King was so close to death. Many of the guards had agreed, but the woman had taken the knife that the baron almost stuck into Cullen’s back. She’d exposed the man as a liar, and… he had a number of questions he needed answered. Both as the Captain of the Guard and as a once-templar.

“You’re lucky the Lady Enchanter was available,” Cullen said, resting his knee on the cold floor. “Otherwise you’d never have made it.”

“Yay,” Milliara groaned through her teeth.

Cullen exchanged a glance with Haylan who wasn’t yet halfway done the sutures. She shrugged slightly, getting back to work.

“I _could_ stop,” Haylan said. “The King needs my help more than you do.”

“She needs to be alive for the king to pass judgement on her, Lady Enchanter,” Cullen said firmly. “Whether it’s King Maric or King Cailan is yet to be determined. While we wait, there is work for us to do. One of the Arls reported that his room at the Inn was attacked during the ball,” Cullen continued, watching as Milliara forced an eye open to look at him. A stray strand of hair had fallen across her nose, and he brushed it aside to better see her face.

“That was you, wasn’t it?” He asked, trying not to think of how soft the skin of her nose was. Or the way her lips were still stained with the bloody foam from her lungs. “His charge is gone, Rythlen-“

“Cousland,” Milliara said. The stray hair fell back across her eyes, and Cullen heard a faint clank as Milliara tried to lift her hand to brush it away. Realization stole across her face as she tested her hands each. Clank, clank.

“Stop moving,” Haylan said, “You’re pulling at the sutures.” A low growl from the healer’s mabari echoed the healer’s words, and Cullen saw the elf’s eyes fly open.

“What was that?” she whispered, her whole body tensed. Her eyes fixed on Cullen’s face, nearly circular with fear. “What is that?I can’t see it, what is it?” her words were breathy, voice slipping into a slightly panicked pitch.

“Your Jailer,” he said, and hated himself for the look of terror on her face. “Tell me how you knew about Howe’s ward. Where is she?”

“A mabari, a fucking-“ MIlliara’s eyes were slipping out of focus, staring through Cullen instead of at him. He watched as she tried to control her breathing, eyes flicking towards where she’d heard the dog, but the angle put the mabari just out of her line of sight.

“The Cousland girl,” Cullen repeated. “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you, just keep the dog away from me,” she begged, eyes slowly focusing back on him. “An Antivan, a Crow. Howe hired him to kill the girl, make it look like an accident. I was hired to _stop_ that.” She winced, and Cullen looked over to see Haylan finishing the last of the sutures.

“Who paid you?” Cullen asked, mind reeling. Howe had taken the girl in, why would he want her removed? “Was the Baron involved?”

“No, not Rothbart,” Milliara whispered. “I was supposed to die tonight. That was… part of the plan. Save the girl, start a fight, die. But plans changed.”

“Who paid you?” he asked, taking her chin gently between his thumb and forefingers. He meant to glare at her, frighten it out of her… but Cullen found his voice softening as he saw the tears stuck to her lashes. He carefully lifted up his numbed hand, holding the shattered phylactery up for her to see. From the corner of his eye, he could see Haylan’s eyes go wide.

“Does it have something to do with this?”

“The witches of the wilds,” Milliara whispered. She smiled, her lips pressed together as though it might stop the shaking of her voice. Gently, she slipped her hand up from where it had been shackled to the cot, and wrapped her fingers around the broken vial. Cullen blinked, and glanced down at the opened cuff on the floor.

“You’re going to help us find her,” Cullen said. He hadn’t spoken with Alistair or Cailan about this, but if the woman had met the Cousland girl, she would be invaluable in tracking her down.

“No she’s not,” Haylan said, “She’d fall apart, the sutures are just stop gaps. She needs extended care. That’s assuming she’s telling the truth. She almost killed the King-“

“Then you’ll come with us,” Cullen said, leaving the broken phylactery in the elf’s hand. “I have a feeling your mabari will go a long way in persuading her to remain honest.” He stood, trying not to think of the panic on her face at the mention of the dog.

“We leave at midday, get some rest,” he said, and walked from the jail cell. He tried not to feel guilty at using the dog as leverage, but it would let him keep a closer eye on the elf. Cullen felt a little sick, wondering if he was any better than the Baron for doing so… and he didn’t much like the answer.

~~~

_big thank you to[picchar](http://tmblr.co/mIOfQKLDgrW6G92HU_21HWg) and [siriusdraws](http://tmblr.co/mA2be3W2tNmCNgUo2zAezUg) for letting me borrow their characters <3_


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